


State of Broken Things

by Renegade_Reaper



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Character Death, Football Player Shiro (Voltron), Foster Kid Keith (Voltron), M/M, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Witchcraft, horror themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renegade_Reaper/pseuds/Renegade_Reaper
Summary: "They'll never believe you." The shadow - thethingthat mirrored Keith, looked like Keith, had Keith's voice - hisses, black poison seeping from his mouth, clinging to his chin.Keith is about to reply, or maybe he's about to scream. But then a sharp beam of light and a sirens wailing cuts into the silence, the flashing lights falling onto Keith. The shadow disappears, and he's left with the body of his dead foster brother at his feet and a crushing realization that he was never going to be able to convince the police that he was innocent.





	1. One

“And your room is down there. First door on the right.”

Keith shoulders his back, peering down the steps that lead into the basement. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d seen, but already he could feel the cold seeping into his bones. At least he’d be apart from the other kids in the house - they seemed to hate him already and he’d only been here for the better part of an hour.

“If you need anything, I’ll be up here.” His new foster mom says, pulling away and leaving him to stare down into the depths of the dark basement.

Keith fumbles for a light switch, then carefully starts his descent into the cold. The basement is stuffed with odd boxes and unused houseware that casts gloomy shadows in the dim light, He swears one of them moves when he turns away, but that was probably just the exhaustion talking. The first door on the right happens to be his room, which is small, furnished only with a rickety dresser, an ancient bedframe and mattress. He sets his stuff down on the bed. Okay. This wasn’t so bad, he could make it work.

The Griffins family seemed nice enough. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin had a son about his age, James, who he had yet to meet. The house was small, and yeah sure, he had to sleep in the basement, but it really could’ve been so much worse. His social worker had seemed hopeful. It was hard not to feel the same way, especially now that his seventeenth birthday was a few months away. A lot of families didn’t go for kids older than twelve.

Keith starts unpacking his duffel bag, folding his meager stack of clothes. He didn’t have anything to make the room his own, and he probably wouldn’t get anything for another few months. He considered himself to be in the clear after he hit the four month mark, but even then it was hard to tell. This family seemed alright, though. They weren’t afraid of him. But he still needed to meet James.

*

He doesn’t meet his new foster brother until the next day. Apparently he was on the swim team, so by the time Keith had gotten up and ready for school, James had already left the house hours before. After suffering a mundane morning with people he hardly knew, avoiding gauging questions everyone asked, and picking at his breakfast, Mr. Griffin piled him in the car and took him to school.

“This won’t be an everyday thing,” he warns, flipping from one boring talk show radio station to another. “You can walk home with James so you know how to get to school. I don’t have time to take you every morning, this is already making me late.”

Keith picks at a stray string on his backpack. “Yes, sir.”

He does his best to look out the window and take in his surroundings, but he’d learned after house three that almost every neighborhood looked the same. There were a ton of trees, loads of white trim, and similar street names everywhere. Whose idea was it to name streets after different types of plants? After the third block of the same thing, Keith gives up, deciding instead to wait for James to show him home. Now he was focusing on the school steadily drawing nearer.

The Griffins lived in a small town. A _small_ town. Population 1,000 or so. There was one school district, two functioning school campuses, and every kid there had grown up with each other. Everyone knew everyone and there were no secrets to be had that the whole town didn’t already know.

It was not an understatement to say that everyone looked when Keith walked into the school. He was instantly reminded why he hated small towns. It was easier to disappear and be invisible if there were too many people for anyone to care about one more. But now, everyone cared.

The halls went a little quieter when he walked in to find the office. Keith was suddenly all too aware of his messy hair, the holes in his shirt, the worn thin leather jacket he’d had since his first home. The eyes on him made his skin burn uncomfortably. He wondered if he could get away with ditching on the first day.

He lifts his gaze after a moment, if only to find his new foster brother or maybe even figure out where the hell he was supposed to go. Much to his despair, one of the kids catches his gaze.

The guy is tall, with a fringe of dark hair hanging in his warm brown eyes. He’s wearing a letterman’s jacket - _oh great, there are_ jocks _at this school_ \- and a soft smile. The smile widens a little when it finds Keith, who only stares impassively back, faltering a moment before dropping his gaze just as the bell rings. The halls erupt into chaos once again, leaving Keith to navigate a wall of people as well as a new place.

“Hey,” a voice calls behind him.

Keith tenses on instinct, whirling around and narrowing his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk, he isn’t here to make friends, he’s here to survive until he can be out on his own and put all of this behind him. He’s just about to say this, too - kindly _fuck off_ \- but he stops before he can.

It’s the guy. He’s standing there with that stupidly nice smile, his hands shoved in his pockets and his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey, there.” He says again.

“What?” Keith hears it before he realizes he’d responded. His voice was flat, stiff, silently warning this guy away from him.

But this guy is either too dense to hear it, or he just ignores it. There was always one of these guys at school, Keith despairs. A guy he’d have to avoid in order to survive. But this was a small fucking town. There was no way avoiding people was gonna be easy.

“You’re the new guy, right? Need help finding the office?”

Keith’s shoulders creep up to his ears as the tension turns to slight panic that he masks behind a scowl and a strong defense. “I can find it.” He grits. “On my own.”

But he’s just hit with a bright smile. This guy was not going to just leave, was he? God. “Yeah, I’m sure you could, but I’d rather you not get detention your first day. All the teachers here are hard-asses.”

“...Fine.” He gives in after a moment, sizing the guy up.

“I’m Shiro, by the way.” The jock - _Shiro_ \- says, taking the lead.

“Keith,” he offers grudgingly, because he might as well.

“Nice to meet you. You’re James Griffin’s new foster brother, right? I heard him mention it a few weeks back.”

“I guess.” Keith shrugs, glancing back up at his companion. He looked so effortlessly comfortable in his own skin. Not that he didn’t have a reason to - this guy was fit as hell. Keith was guessing football, just from the bulky, cumbersome way his body was built. At least he didn’t seem to have the cocky arrogance that usually came with the jersey.

Shiro catches him looking, his brown gaze warm and amused. A wildfire flush creeps up Keith’s neck and he looks away quickly, frowning at his shoes.

“So what do you think? Of the Griffins, I mean. And the town.”

Keith gives an annoyed sigh, his brow pinched. Wow, this guy really couldn’t take a hint. But… maybe it wasn’t so bad to hope that he’d found a place here. The people here seemed alright. They didn’t outright hate him, which was a start, and if he stayed on his best behaviour then it could… work out. He just needed to try.

A good start could be making a friend.

His shoulders lose the tension slowly and he breathes out, preparing himself to be just a little open with this guy. “They’re okay, I guess. I haven’t met James yet, so… and the town is fine. Really small, but… fine.”

Shiro hums. “James is pretty cool. He’s on the swim team, so I don’t hang around him much, but he’s a pretty good guy.”

“That’s… good.” Keith offers weakly, rubbing his face. To be honest, he’d only ever been in homes overrun with foster kids or homes where he was the only one. Cohabitating with another kid his age - and the _only other_ kid in the house - was something Keith hadn’t had to do yet.

Shiro stops in front of a door that reads _Office and Principal_. “Here we are.” He says cheerfully, opening the door for him. “I’ll wait here.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Keith says quickly, shaking his head. He’d rather take the walk of shame by himself, where this guy couldn’t see him. He was making friends. This was tier one friend. He wasn’t ready for anything past tier one!

“I know.” Shiro says, _annoyingly_ cheerful. “But I’m happy to do it. This school isn’t big, but I’d rather show you around so you don’t feel stupid if you get lost.”

It was obvious that he was not getting out of this. Shiro’s warm brown gaze was determined. Keith had a feeling that not many people would ever be able to get past that. He hisses out a breath, nodding instead and stepping under Shiro’s arm and into the office to get his schedule and locker combination.

Here went nothing.

*

The classes were the same thing everywhere, except he had a considerable amount of makeup and catch up work to do, despite it only being the first couple of weeks into the school year. It was going to be hours at night wrestling with intro to physics and writing copious notes on Hamlet, but. Whatever. It wasn’t like he was going to have any other plans.

To his absolute surprise and slight horror, Shiro had insisted on copying down Keith’s schedule and had showed up after every single one to walk him to the next one, talking excitedly about what Keith had learned, or telling him stories about the teachers, or just… being really nice to him. It was confusing. And kind of enjoyable.

They had the same lunch, but Shiro had warned Keith that he had to stay behind to talk to his teacher after class, so unfortunately he was going to have to find his way to the cafeteria by himself. Which was fine, he had done it countless times, and Shiro’s lack of presence didn’t bother him.

On the way to the caf, Keith saw his foster brother in the midst of the crowd. He was leaning against his locker, his arms crossed over his chest as he talked to a guy with long platinum blond hair, another tall and hulking figure shadowing him, stoic and kind of intimidating.

He only recognized him from the pictures that had been plastered all over the house. James had a boyishly smug sort of persona, Keith noticed immediately, much to his dismay. He didn’t like being around self-righteous assholes. But hopefully James would be at least bearable.

He knew almost seconds after approaching the group that he was horribly, horribly wrong.

“Hey,” he greets, approaching the group.

Three sets of eyes fall on him. The one with the long blond hair narrows his, gaze dragging up Keith’s disheveled appearance. He made a mental note to stay on his foster parents’ good side so he could get some new clothes. This was the best pair he’d had. Nevertheless, Keith fixes the guy with a nasty glare and gets a raised eyebrow in reply.

The tall, stoic one only gives him a small nod. He isn’t quite sure how to read him, but it seems friendly enough. James, on the other hand, is instantly sneering.

“What do _you_ want?” He snaps, turning toward him, his body language closed off.

“Your, um, dad. He said you’d walk home with me so I can figure out how to navigate the neighborhood.” Keith says, dragging his gaze from the blond to his surly housemate.

James makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Not happening. I have _plans_. Plans that _you_ aren’t going to ruin.”

For the first time since he’d been here, Keith feels a thrill of helplessness sink into the pit of his stomach. He struggles with his words for a moment, then shakes his head. “Fine.” He says, inwardly seething. He didn’t want to - _couldn’t_ \- risk losing his place in yet another home. He’d play this asshole’s game. Besides, this town wasn’t even that big, he’d figure it out.

“Can you believe that guy?” He hears James say, loud enough for him to hear, after he turns to walk away and find his way through the crowd. “I can’t believe my parents are letting another one stay here.”

“They never last,” remarks the blond one, the barest trace of an accent on his lips. “Give it a week.”

Keith blocks out the noise from the rest of the hall, shouldering his way to the cafeteria.

*

“Keith!”

The shout comes from across the large room. He turns away from the line, scanning the room until it lands on a waving, grinning Shiro. Keith picks up his tray and bites back a smile. God, this guy was relentless.

“Hey.” He greets mildly, setting his tray down at the table he’d been waved over to. Shiro had made a big show of scooting over and patting the spot beside him.

There are three other people at the table, scrutinizing him in the way that was completely familiar and also annoyingly uncomfortable. The smallest one had large, circular glasses, intense hazel eyes peering out at him from under a mop of unruly auburn hair. A gangly, tanned boy was sitting next to her, a spoon sticking out of his mouth, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. The final, a big, burly guy with a headband holding his bangs from his eyes, gives him a friendly smile. Keith doesn’t give him one back.

“You’re the new guy.” The gangly one says, pointing a finger at him accusingly.

“ _God_ , Lance.” The girl rolls her eyes. “You _just_ figured that out?” She turns to Keith. “I’m Pidge. This asshole over here is Lance, and the big guy is Hunk.”

“Hey.” Keith repeats, focusing instead on unwrapping the slice of pizza from the tinfoil it’d been wrapped in.

Shiro smiles patiently, watching him a moment before turning back to his friends. “This is Keith. He’s living with the Griffins.”

“What, he couldn’t have told us himself?” Lance scoffs. “Hey, mullet? Usually it’s polite to look at people when you talk to them.”

Keith bristles, looking up at Lance and completely ready to tear him a new one. Shiro steps in before he can, though, huffing.

“Chill, Lance. He’s still getting used to it here.”

Pidge rolls her eyes dramatically, catching Keith’s gaze. “Ignore him, he’s just upset because he doesn’t have Shiro’s undivided attention now.”

Lance’s indignant squawking is interrupted by a rumbling laugh from Hunk, who had been silent up until now. “Sorry, buddy, but she’s right.” He chortles when Lance turns a betrayed gaze on him.

Keith decides he’d quite like to be left alone for a moment or two, digging in to his food and settling in to study everything around him.

There seemed to be a natural hierarchy, just like there was at just about every school. He didn’t have the energy to suss out what every group was like, but he located the people he assumed would probably get him in trouble or cause trouble for him, and opted to stay far away from them.

His gaze lands on James again and he averts it before his foster brother can look up at him. A thrill of panic runs through him as he realizes that he didn’t even remember the address or what the place he lived looked like. He didn’t even have a cell phone, let alone the memory to remember his new parents’ phone numbers.

“Hey.” A soft voice and a bump to his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts. Shiro was looking down at him, and for some reason, this stranger seemed to be… _worried_. For him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, but then he bites his tongue, looking up at the others at the table. Lance seemed to be chatting Hunk’s ear off about something, and Pidge had pulled out a textbook and was studying.

Well. He’d already been close to humiliation once today, might as well go for the gold. Besides, this was a small town - maybe Shiro would know.

“I don’t remember where I live.” He says lowly, keeping his gaze on his plate. “And James has… plans, so he won’t show me.”

Shiro blinks in surprise, his gaze flicking up to James’ table. Then he frowns. “Oh, well. Pidge lives over by their place, I’m sure she’d walk you home. I have football, otherwise I’d do it.”

“You’re sure I’ll do what now?” Pidge asks distractedly, looking up from her work.

“Walk Keith home?” Shiro asks, turning a pair of puppy dog eyes on her that did things to Keith’s insides. Uh oh.

“Oh.” She brushes her hair behind her ear, glancing at Keith. Sizing him up. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Thanks.” Keith says, relief surging through him. Now all he had to do was make it through the rest of today.

*

“So where are you from?”

This was the exact reason Keith had been hesitant to go with Pidge after Lance had announced he was going home with Pidge so they could study. Which meant they were _both_ walking with Keith.

“Lance,” Pidge pinches the bridge of her nose.

Keith shoulders his bag, looking over at the boy, who was now indignant.

“What?” Lance huffs. “I just wanna know! He’s gonna be here for a while, I figure we should know who we’re _eating lunch_ with!”

“Just leave him alone, okay?” Pidge shakes her head, looking at Keith. “Sorry about him, he’s... Lance.” She says, likes this can explain away just about everything about the guy. Keith figures they don’t really have any other words for it.

But he shrugs, taking in his surroundings, trying to memorize. Left on Oak Street. Straight until Sunburst Road, then right.

Pidge is watching him, he realizes when he catches her gaze. But instead of looking away, she just gives him a small smile.

“You know,” she says, her tone of voice making Lance look over at her, trying to convey the universal look for _no_. “I can swing by and pick you up tomorrow. James is kind of an ass, so I can show you around until you have the hang of it.”

“Pidge!” Lance hisses. “No, he could be a serial killer!”

“What makes you think that?” Keith huffs, finally having enough of today’s shit.

“Uh, _duh_!” He waves his arms dramatically, pitching his voice higher. “The _hair_? I can’t trust somebody with hair like that, Pidge, and I question your judgement if you do.”

Keith rubs his face, letting out a sharp breath. “You’re an ass.” He snaps at last, turning an icy glare on the boy.

Lance looks at him like Keith had hauled off and decked him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

“And this,” Pidge says, smug. “Is why I’m walking him to school.” She stops in front of what Keith guesses is his place. “See you tomorrow. If you aren’t outside by seven sharp, I’m leaving without you.”

He nods, offering her a quiet thanks and giving Lance another sharp look for good measure. He waits until they start down the road before he fishes out his key, entering a quiet and empty house.

Keith enjoys a few hours to himself, working on his homework. James doesn’t come home until after dinner. He moves on to his room after an awkward dinner with his foster parents, finishing up his homework until he’s on the verge of passing out. The rest of it could wait until morning.

After he settles into the uncomfortable bed, he reflects on the day. He’d made a friend within the first twenty four hours of being here. He’d been able to tackle the homework. He hadn’t gotten in a fight. His foster brother sucked, but at least he wasn’t around very often.

Keith rolls over onto his side, smiling faintly and burying his face in the lumpy pillow. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in the Griffin household was something close to what Keith had experienced in his life, but also very different. He was still ignored, for the most part, and his living space was separated from the rest of the family, and James seemed to outright hate him. But there were good things about living here, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a shit week so here you go, have some angst! I'm sorry the first chapter is crappy, I hope this makes up for it. This chapter is significantly longer than the last one, and even then I cut it down from what it was going to be because it's been a week and I think I owe it to you guys to post as frequently as I can.

Living in the Griffin household was something close to what Keith had experienced in his life, but also very different. He was still ignored, for the most part, and his living space was separated from the rest of the family, and James seemed to outright hate him. But there were good things about living here, too.

For one, he never went to bed hungry (unless he had stayed up well past what he was supposed to and his body was already expecting breakfast, but that was his own fault). Mrs. Griffin had taken him out and bought him clothes one afternoon, much to Keith’s surprise. Apparently he wouldn’t have to wait until month four - they had already skipped to month six.

School was different, too. He was doing surprisingly well academically and was even considering joining a club - but then the anxiety and doubt came back and he always backed off the idea before he could work up the nerve to do it. New clothes were one step, but joining a club? That was a step that could probably kill his chances of staying.

It already made him anxious asking for a ride to places, or requesting something specific with groceries, or sometimes even intruding on the family’s movie nights. The Griffin family always curled up on the couch, sharing popcorn between them, while Keith took to the loveseat and settled in by himself, despite Mrs. Griffin’s absent attempts to get him to sit with them. Once he’d almost said yes, but then James had given him a look that clearly stated _back off_ , and he’d declined with as much dignity as he could muster.

James was pretty protective of his family, Keith was noticing. And his things. One afternoon Mrs. Griffin asks him to go upstairs and get her son for dinner, but he wasn’t in his room. Keith was on his way out when something in the far corner caught his eye - a stack of rolled up scroll-looking things.

When he steps closer, he could see that they were carefully drawn maps outlining what humanity knew of the cosmos and what lay in it. There was a roll of thick paper stacked to one side of the desk all the maps were laying on, pencils and rulers and other measuring devices strewn about. Above the desk was a framed map, old and yellowed with age. But it was beautiful.

Keith moves closer to look at it, entranced. The date on it was ‘57. This thing was _old_ , but obviously well cared for. He’d always loved stars, always dreamt of going to see them and being surrounded by them. As he got older and everything was torn from him, it seemed like the earth had him trapped and freedom was beyond this atmosphere.

He’d long since given up on going to the stars, what with the countless homes and his poor grades and that one time he’d spent a week in juvenile detention - but being near these pictures made him feel like he was four years old again, sitting on his father’s shoulders as constellations danced in his eyes, wide with wonder. He was four years old and his father told him that he could do anything, he could live on the moon if he wanted. He was four years old and life wasn’t hard, no one was dead, nothing had been ripped away in a cruel cycle that never seemed to end.

“What are you doing?”

James’ voice cuts through his thoughts and he jumps, scrambling away from the desk and turning to face his foster brother.

“What?” He says breathlessly, his heart pounding out of his chest.

James stalks over, shoving past him to check his desk and their precious contents over. When everything is accounted for, he turns on Keith, his eyes narrowed. “The fuck are you doing in my room, _Kogane_?”

His last name is sneered, spit at him like something foul, and Keith actually flinches. “I came to get you for dinner.”

“And that involves coming into my room and messing with my shit?”

Keith bristles, a nasty retort on his tongue. Then he remembers the clothes and the clubs and the possibility of maybe having friends here, and he stops. He takes a breath. He pushes his pride and his anger down.

“I’m sorry,” he grits out, staring at the floor. “I was only looking.”

James studies him, then huffs. “Whatever. Just stay out of my room.”

And with that, he brushes past Keith and out of his room to go join his family for dinner.

Keith lingers at the doorway, staring back at the framed map and then down at the family below. His heart twists a little in his chest, that four year old Keith grieving all over again. But he takes a breath, pushing it back down. Maybe, just _maybe_ , one day he’d truly be a part of this family.

He starts down the steps, making his way into the tight knit family. All he had to do was try.

*

It seemed that trying also included saying yes to group outings or study sessions with the tight knit group of friends Shiro was trying to pull him into. It was always the football player who enthusiastically invited him to join, but the others always seemed uncertain or hesitant to agree, although they always did. Everyone was weak for Shiro’s big brown puppy dog eyes. Keith included.

It wasn’t until after the second or third time he’d been asked to come along and been grudgingly included that Keith finally pulled Shiro aside. It was right before a study session (for a class Keith wasn’t even in) at a local coffee shop where, apparently, they always went.

“They don’t like me,” Keith tells Shiro quietly when he pulls him aside to politely excuse himself, looking over at the rest of the group. They were laughing, caught up in another inside joke that he had no idea how to decipher and no intention to ask how.

“What?” Shiro asks, incredulous. “Of course they do!”

“No, Shiro. They don’t. They’re just saying yes because they don’t want to crush your dreams.” Keith sighs.

The football captain gives him an uncertain look, glancing over at his friends. “I’ll talk to them.” He says, turning to go and do just that.

“What? No - Shiro,” Keith grabs his arm, pulling him back. “No. You can’t make them like me, not anymore than I can. They just need some time with you… without me.”

“I’m not leaving you to walk home alone,” he says stubbornly.

“ _Shiro_.” Keith hisses, glancing over at the group. Lance had stopped talking. Pidge was staring at the two of them. Hunk looked anxious. “Just - just let it be. Go hang out with them. You were their friend first.”

Shiro looks between his friends and Keith, his expression torn between stubborn frustration and hesitant loyalty. It was obvious he wasn’t going to make a decision, and more obvious that he would probably rather spontaneously combust than decide, so Keith gives him a little shove.

“Go,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a dejected huff, Shiro rubs his neck and stares at Keith. It takes a few minutes, but when Lance calls his name, he turns around and joins his friends.

Keith watches as they leave, his arms folded over his chest. Maybe trying also meant giving these guys some space. He didn’t need to stir up trouble, not when things were going so well, and getting in between friend groups was certainly going to do that.

He ends up getting lost on the way home, arriving an hour late, right when the table is being set for dinner. Mrs. Griffin says hello, he gets a nod from the man of the house. But the biggest surprise is when James looks up at him, blinking, then gives him the tiniest of smiles. It made him want to jump for joy, even though it wasn’t much. It was so much better than what he was used to. With a little smile, Keith goes to help James set the table, both of them keeping their mutual silence that, for once, didn’t feel like a dark cloud.

Over dinner Keith is informed that James has a swim meet that night.

“Would you like to go?” Mrs. Griffin offers, giving Keith a smile.

Keith looks up at her, then over at James. His foster brother’s brow was pinched, like he didn’t appreciate his mother asking and probably didn’t want him to go. Which was fine by Keith - he’d never been to any sort of sporting event in a long time. He wasn’t really sure he’d know what to do. Not to mention that sports moms were like sharks when it came to gossip and Keith was not in the mood to be pecked at or asked about like he was deaf.

“No, thanks.” Keith spears a green bean with his fork. “I have a bunch of homework tonight. Thanks, though.”

Across the table, James looks relieved, shooting him a hesitantly grateful look. He nods, then turns back to his plate.

“Let us know if you change your mind.” James’s mother says mildly, displeased. She’d been trying very hard to integrate him into more family outings and traditions, but… this one felt a little personal. A little too private. Keith was already invading their home, invading James’s personal space. The least he could do was giving him time to celebrate things with his own family. And for now, he wasn’t family.

The Griffins are gone shortly after dinner is cleaned up and put away, emerging from upstairs, decked out in school colors and gear. They’re gone in a rush of color and excited chatter, leaving Keith with a house to himself.

He’s getting in bed when they come home, their voices filtering through the floorboards. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin were congratulating their son, telling him how proud they were, promising to celebrate later when it wasn’t so late on a school night.

It sounded like one of James’s friends was there, too - Lotor? The one with the accent, Keith thinks sleepily. They were talking, the floorboards creaking where the living room was they set up the area for a sleepover.

Keith rolls over in bed, looking up at the wall and listening as the two boys upstairs laugh and talk. Some part of him wishes he were up there too, with a couple of his own friends. But to do that, he’d have to make friends who weren’t wary of him.

Maybe tomorrow he would join a club, or a team of some sort. Then he could make friends and do something his foster parents could be proud of him for. Grades didn’t count - they hadn’t counted since Keith was in his first few months of preschool and came home with a star sticker on his picture and a stamp on his hand, rewarding him for good behaviour.

“I’m proud of you, son.” His dad had said, taking a portion of what little money they had to buy him a treat. The picture had gone up on the fridge, proudly displayed for them to see. It had been the last time anyone had been proud of him for anything.

Listening to the small family upstairs, Keith found that, for once, he wasn’t jealous of his foster family. Instead, he was happy for James. He was happy that he’d grown up in a place where his parents cared about what he did and were proud of him for his achievements.

One day, he would make them proud, too.

*

The next day at school, everything goes to shit.

It had been a relatively normal day to begin with. He got up at the ass crack of dawn, leaving before James was even up and moving. Pidge had walked with Keith to school, making shallow conversation. She seemed to be warming up to him, little by little, and he was paying attention so that he could ask her about all the things she seemed to like talking about. This morning, it was about the new robotics camp coming to town this summer.

He’d had his ear talked off all the way to school, where they’d met up with Shiro, Hunk, and Lance before kids started filtering into the halls. Here Keith suffered through more agonizing small talk, pulling away from the group once he felt like exploding to put his books in his locker before homeroom.

He’d just closed his locker and turned to go to class when he was grabbed by the collar of his shirt and slammed into the lockers.

“What the fu-” He starts, but cuts himself off when he sees the blazing hazel eyes of his foster brother. Behind him is the haughty blond and the stoic giant. The anger drains slightly, his gut twisting.

“Where is it?” James hisses, his knuckles pressing sharply against Keith’s collarbone.

“What are you talking about?” He spits, trying to pry James’s hands off of him. “Let _go_.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, you little shit!” Now people were starting to stare, his foster brother’s shout drawing people in like flies to a corpse.

“I really _don’t_ ,” Keith huffs, his efforts at pushing James off faltering as eyes turn their way.

His brother sneers, dropping him to the floor, one hand still pressing him to the locker. “No? Then open your locker, Keith.”

“No.” Keith huffs, glaring up at him. “What the fuck are you even talking about, James?”

“My grandpa’s map,” he hisses. “The one you were staring at the other day? I know you stole it. You were the only one home last night and you have plenty of places to hide stuff in the basement.”

“What would I want to do with a map, James?” Keith asks tiredly, dropping his head back onto the lockers with a dull thud.

“I don’t know, you tell me.” He huffs.

“If you’re really innocent,” the blond who had spent the night pipes up, something glittering in his pale eyes. “Then just open your locker.”

“Fine.” Keith shoves James’s arm off his chest and turning to open his locker. “I didn’t do it, and besides, why would I bring it to…” He trails off, his eyes wide.

There was the picture. Frame and all. Just… sitting there in between his history textbook and folder. Keith’s heart squeezes in his chest and he closes his eyes briefly.

“Well, well.” Lotor steps over, reaching past him and ignoring as Keith flinches away from his arm out of reflex, pulling the map out. “What do we have here?”

“I didn’t - I don’t know how that got there!” Keith whirls around, his eyes wide. “I didn’t take it, James! Somebody put that in there!”

But his foster brother wasn’t listening. His gaze had darkened, almost black with fury. His hands were clenched at his sides, fingers trembling. James looked two seconds away from beating Keith into a bloody pulp. “You’re _lying_.”

“Good thing he’s replaceable.” Lotor says coolly, flicking his gaze up to Keith and giving him a cold smile.

James seems to relax a little at that, pulling away a little bit, watching as Keith tries to map out way to get out, get away and run far away from this place. He should’ve known that all of this was too good to be true.

“Yeah…” James muses, something changing in his demeanor. He wasn’t… _exactly_ mad now. Instead he looked oddly pleased, and the expression made Keith shudder. “Yeah, Lotor, you’re right.”

He leans forward into Keith’s personal space. Keith tamps down the urge to deck him. “You know how many foster kids my parents have taken in? Two. Two, and the last one tried to sabotage my swimming. It only took one strike before he was sent back to whatever hole they dragged you out of.”

“Imagine what they’d do to a liar.” Lotor muses. Keith cuts his gaze in his direction, bile rising in his throat. His fingers twitch at his side and he has to force himself to take a breath. Impulse control was an ugly thing that had gotten him into trouble before. He was trying to stay here.

“I didn’t do it.” He manages to choke out, fighting to keep his voice level.

“You know, I looked at your record just before you got here. My parents are shit when it comes to hiding files.” James crosses his arms, grinning. “You haven’t lasted in a home for more than three months. Every single time someone pisses you off, you cause problems and get sent away. Did you know,” he says offhandedly in Lotor’s direction. “That Keith spent time in Juvenile Detention for assault and attempted murder?”

“I did not.” Lotor’s smile was as sharp and cruel as a knife.

“Look, I didn’t- It was a mistake, I was only-” Keith was getting frantic. Suddenly James was too close. There were too many people watching. He wanted to throw up.

“No wonder your mom and dad abandoned you.” James sighs, shaking his head. “Nobody wants a murderous sociopath as a kid.”

Keith snaps. He quite literally sees red. One moment, he was still and silent as stone, and the next, James was reeling back, clutching a bloodied nose.

He watches, dazed, his knuckles throbbing. “Oh, shit,” he says softly. Then hell breaks loose.

James slams him into the locker, slamming his head back into it, his fist connecting with Keith’s jaw. That’s all it takes for Keith’s fight or flight reaction to kick in, and this time he chooses fight. Chaos breaks out in the hall. Kids cheer and yell and circle them like a pack of vultures as the two beat the everloving shit out of each other.

Unfortunately for James, Keith had a lot of experience in this area of life, and it isn’t long until They’re on the floor, Keith straddling James as he lands blow after blow to his face and upper body.

“ _HEY_!” A voice cuts through the pandemonium.

Keith is seized by the armpits, yanked off of his foster brother. He kicks and struggles for a moment, breathing hard, before realizing what he’d done and staring in horror at the aftermath. James’s nose was broken, an eye quickly purpling and his jaw red. He was going to bruise.

James looks up at Keith, then spits blood in his direction as Lotor and the silent giant steps forward to help him up to his feet.

“Kiss this place goodbye, psycho.” James snaps. “You never belonged here in the first place.”

Keith surges forward, ready to claw James's eyes out, but the strong grip on his arms yanks him back.

“Let’s go.” Says a terrifyingly familiar voice at Keith’s back. He twists to look, his heart in his throat. Shiro’s grim gaze meets his, his strong jaw set and mouth twisted into a line. “Let’s go, Keith,” he says, his voice impassive as he drags him away from the crowd.

Keith stumbles as Shiro pushes his way through the crowd. “Shiro,” He croaks, but the hard line of his jaw shuts him up.

At the edge of the crowd stands Pidge, Hunk, and Lance. Their eyes widen when they see him. Pidge’s mouth twists in disgust. She looks away from him, her arms crossed over her chest. Hunk avoids eye contact, looking sick to his stomach. It’s Lance who speaks, even though he looked a little queasy himself.

“What the _fuck_?” He throws his arms up, nearly hitting Hunk in the face.

“Lance,” Shiro says, a hard edge to his voice. Lance’s mouth snaps shut, but by the look on his face, Keith knew he was in for something later. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

Keith is pulled away, probably gentler than he deserved, straight down the hall to where the offices were. Keith’s stomach drops. He has the urge to flee, but he wouldn’t make it very far. He’d just beat the shit out of one of this town’s own. If they had thought he hadn’t belonged here before, now he was sure he’d be chased out of the town with torches and pitchforks.

“ _Shiro_ ,” he tries again, his voice shaking. They stop at the office doors and the football player takes a breath, turning away from him before pulling the door open.

“Go.” He says, and he doesn’t look at Keith.

Some part of him was thankful that he was being made to turn himself in. The punishment wouldn’t be so severe as it would if he had run away like he wanted to. In some sick sense, he almost thanks Shiro. But he holds his tongue.

“Keith,” Shiro says, harsher this time. “ _Go_.”

He goes. It isn’t until he’s sitting in a cold, hard plastic chair, waiting for his punishment in an empty room, when he realizes that he was alone again and probably was going to be kicked out of the house. The world comes crashing down, and for the first time since he’d been arrested for something he had done out of self defense, Keith cries.

It was situations like these where he wished someone would be here to hold his hand and tell him things would be okay. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Nobody had told him it was going to be okay in a long, long time. Nobody had held his hand in even longer. He doubted that Shiro would ever look him in the eye again. He doubted that he was going to stay in this place for any more than a couple of days.

Somehow, Keith finds comfort in the routine that had ruined his life.

*

“Violence is not tolerated in Altea High, Mr. Kogane.” Mr. Iverson, the school’s principal, says for the second time since he’d called Keith into his office after being briefed by Shiro and then Lotor. “And stealing certainly isn’t, either.”

“Yes, sir.” Keith mumbles, his gaze on the enormous oak desk in front of him.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense, Kogane?”

“No, sir.” It comes out a whisper, the heavy pressure of tears threatening his eyes again. That was the thing Keith hated about tears - you couldn’t just cry and be done. You had to just cry more if the situation was delicate enough.

Iverson gives a long, heavy sigh, his chair creaking as he sits back. “You have quite the record here.”

Keith swipes a hand over his eyes quickly, his split knuckles aching. “Yes, sir.”

“Suspension in three cases… Expulsion in two. Time in Juvenile Detention." Iverson sighs. "You were failing in almost every school until this one… You were doing so _well_ , Kogane.” Keith thinks he hears a bit of remorse in the principal’s voice. It stings. He doesn’t speak.

“You’re sure you don’t want to defend yourself?” Iverson repeats. Keith shakes his head. “Alright then. You’re in for two weeks of detention, where you will be staying and helping the janitor clean the school until he goes home. You are also banned from any school clubs or sports for the foreseeable future. And,” his voice softens just a tad. “I’m going to have to call your foster parents.”

Keith squeezes his eyes shut under another wave of tears. He’d take _years_ of detention over that, but he was already as good as gone at this point.

“Yes, sir.” He whispers.

Iverson is quiet for another moment, before he sighs and sits up. “You’re dismissed. Go to the nurse to get cleaned up and head on to lunch.”

He nods, getting up from his chair and heading for the door, his dread giving way to numbness.

He doesn’t even feel it when the nurse patches up the gash on his forehead from being slammed into the locker, the scabbing scrapes on his knuckles, or the peroxide for his split lip.

Keith doesn’t feel anything until he picks up his lunch tray and joins Shiro’s table, only because everyone else is glaring daggers at him or whispering excitedly when he turns to find a seat. The table is tense and silent as he sits down and starts sorting out his lunch, keeping his gaze down.

He can feel Pidge’s disgust and Lance’s anger and Hunk’s anxiety. It only takes a few minutes for Pidge to get up, gathering her things and muttering something about the library. Lance follows soon after, with a sharp glare Keith’s way and a “come on, Hunk,” tossed over his shoulder.

It was just him and Shiro now. Keith quickly loses his appetite, picking at the mess of chicken stroganoff with his fork. The silence was stifling.

“How’s your hand?” Shiro breaks the silence, his voice carefully impassive.

Keith has to swallow his tongue before he can talk. “It’s fine.”

There’s another few minutes of tense silence before Shiro sighs, turning toward him. “Why did you do it?”

Keith is silent a moment, running through his words careful. _Because he accused me of theft. Because he called me a murderer. Because I was going to be sent away anyway, it was only a matter of time. Because I’m a terrible person._ The self hatred rears, ugly and cruel, twisting his gut and making him sick to his stomach.

“It doesn’t matter.” He says hoarsely, turning his face away.

“Well, obviously it _does_ , considering you beat the shit out of James.” Shiro sounded angry, irritated, and it makes Keith cringe. But he deserved it. He deserved their scorn. Tears prick at his eyes and he presses a hand to his face, taking a ragged breath.

“Keith…” Shiro’s voice softens. “You can tell me. I’m not going to judge you.”

“But you are!” Keith lashes out, looking up at Shiro, a rogue tear streaking down his face. “Everyone at this _fucking_ school judges everything I do! I just - I was _trying_ , I was going to join a _club_ … But now they’re going to send me back.” He hiccups, pressing his uninjured hand to his eyes, his shoulders shaking. “They always send me back.”

Shiro is quiet. The silence hurts more than the yelling. Keith scrubs a hand over his eyes, ready to flee this time, but then there are arms wrapping around him and pulling him into a solid chest. He tenses, going stiff a moment. A hand finds his hair. His resolve crumbles and he collapses into Shiro with a broken sob.

“It’s okay.” Shiro murmurs into his hair, his fingers carding through his hair rhythmically. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The cafeteria fades away. All the people disappear into the white noise echoing around his head, until all that’s left is Shiro’s hand in his hair and his voice against his temple. For some reason, this guy had worked his way past his defences easily. So easily. Maybe it was the fight. Maybe it was the circumstances, the pain. Or maybe Keith was just tired of fighting.

He guessed it was the latter.

Shiro holds him until his tears dry and the bell rings, ordering them to their next class. Only then does he pull away, his gaze unreadable as he swipes a tear away with a thumb. “What d’you say we skip?”

Keith’s brain short circuits. “What?”

A wry smile tugs at his lips. “I know you’re already in trouble, but they’ll go easier on you if you’re with me. Besides, you’re really in no place to be productive in classes. And everyone here is already gossiping, I can guarantee it.”

Keith wants to decline, but exhaustion was making his head fuzzy and it was only twelve thirty in the afternoon. “Okay,” he concedes.

That was how Keith found himself on the top of the bleachers above the football field, telling Shiro everything. He tells him about the first foster home. The only one he’d had where he’d actually enjoyed his life.

He was five years old when he moved in with Thace and Ulaz, the kindest, most loving people Keith had been with since his dad had died and he’d been thrust into orphanage after orphanage. They had taken him in, giving him space and showing him love through their words and actions, until finally the five year old had dropped his walls and let them love him the way he craved.

Thace liked to take him out for secret ice cream dates (Ulaz knew, but he never said anything. Keith had enjoyed their little secret). They went to local football games together, made surprise (disaster) breakfasts for Ulaz, played in the mud, collected bugs, and watched old cartoons together. Thace was the soft one of the two, weak for Keith’s wide eyes and incessant pouting, much to Ulaz’s dismay.

Ulaz was the more clinical of the two, teaching Keith everything his insatiable five year old brain wanted to know. And when he didn’t know the answers to Keith’s many questions, they’d gone to the library together and spent hours reading up on it. Ulaz was the one who told him the classification and the temperaments of the bug he and Thace caught, he was the one who taught Keith how to plant a garden, and the one to show him how to make a scraped knee get better.

When he was seven years old, Thace had come home from a doctors appointment with bad news. He was sick, they had told him that evening, and he wasn’t going to get better anytime soon. Terminal, it was called. Keith learned a new word that day. But he didn’t need a book to figure out what it meant.

Thace deteriorated quickly after that. Their ice cream dates waned, then became nonexistent. He no longer had the energy to take him to football games or play in the mud or collect bugs. They still watched cartoons, but Thace fell asleep and they no longer laughed together over Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

Ulaz was too busy with orange pill bottles and phone calls that accompanied pacing. He got more impatient the worse his husband got, and Keith learned to bury himself in his books and get good grades so his parents didn’t have another thing to worry about.

When Thace passed away, Keith hardly had the time to grieve one loss before Ulaz sat him down, his gaze sad, and told him that he was going back to the orphanage. It was the second time Keith was ripped away from people he loved, and after that, he resolved not to get too close.

He bounced from home to home, causing problems without meaning to. His callous, rough exterior sent him back quite often. Sometimes it was his grades, and later, his impulse control. He was twelve when he got into his first fight. He was twelve when his social worker told him to shape up if he didn’t want to be alone forever.

At thirteen, he was sent to a house with too many kids and too much alcohol. He was thirteen when his foster dad went after him while he was washing dishes and he tried to defend himself, accidentally stabbing him in the shoulder with the blade in an effort to keep the man away. Keith was thirteen when he sat in a courtroom in an uncomfortable suit from the thrift store. He was thirteen when he was sentenced to six months in juvenile detention for attempted murder and assault.

When he got out at fourteen, he was distant and quiet. He’d gained a scar on his right cheek from one of many fights. He was closed off and angry and hateful towards a world who had done nothing but chewed him up and spat him out in the fourteen years he’d been alive.

And now, when he’d finally found a place where he had hoped to fit in and stay until he was old enough to find a way to be on his own - Keith had gone and fucked it up. He was now pegged as a liar and a violent liability, once again thrown into the cycle he’d tried to break.

He wasn’t sure why he told Shiro all of this. He hadn’t told anybody any of it. But it felt good - freeing, almost - to tell someone. Keith found he didn’t care if Shiro turned around and used this against him. He didn’t have any fight anymore.

“So…” Keith rubs his eyes, empty and tired and unsure of what else to say. “Yeah.”

Shiro is quiet for a moment, before he pulls Keith against his side, tilting his head to rest his chin on the top of his head. “I believe you.” He says after a moment. “That you didn’t steal James’s picture.”

Emotion clogs his throat and he can only nod, closing his eyes briefly. “You do?” He whispers.

“Yeah.” Shiro smiles, rubbing his back. “Yeah, I do.” He pauses a moment, then gets up, taking Keith’s hand. “Are you hungry? You didn’t eat lunch. C’mon, I’ll take you to get food.” 

“You really don’t have to do that.” Keith says quickly, looking up at him with wide eyes. It would be a hit to Shiro’s reputation, let alone his wallet. He hated spending other people’s money.

“I know.” He’s given a kind smile. “But I want to. You can make it up to me later, I promise.”

“Okay.” He says weakly, watching as Shiro steps around the bleachers to the stairs. He pauses, then turns and extends a hand to Keith.

It was his instinct to object. He _could_ refuse. He could snap at Shiro, tell him he could do it by himself. But then he sees the warmth in those brown eyes, and he finds himself faltering. There was no pity in those eyes or in that smile. Just warm friendliness. Just the invitation for a friend to join another friend.

Keith takes a breath, pushing down his reflexive want to prove that he was fine on his own. He looks down at Shiro. He returns the smile. And then he takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all collectively agree that Teenagers by My Chemical Romance is Keith's anthem in this fic? 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comment below, leave a kudos, bookmark with those cute tags you guys put in (yes I see those), or come bother me on my tumblr @renywrites in case you want to be anonymous!


	3. Chapter Three

It was an hour after Shiro had left him on the porch to face his foster parents and he was still standing a few feet away from the door, inspecting it for lack of anything better to do. The blue paint was faded and chipping, worn through by the weather and the countless times it had been opened. Keith stares at a black scuff mark on the bottom of the door and takes a deep breath. It was one of many he’d had in the past hour.

He really didn’t want to go inside. There was no doubt in his mind that he was going to be pulled into a discussion that involved his place in the household and his mannerisms. James was likely to be there, with his beat up face and that murderous glare. He’d probably told them everything — or at least his own side of the story. The chance to explain would probably be overlooked in favor of the blood related kid. That’s always how it went.

Keith heaves one last sigh before pulling his keys from his bag and going inside. The house is still and silent when he steps inside. The door gets caught in the jamb, making a nasty wood on wood screeching noise that cuts through the silence. He freezes, sucking in a breath, before quickly bumping his hip against the door to close it and get the damage done.

He doesn’t even have both shoes off and on the rack by the door before he gets called. “Keith?”

_Shit._

“Yes?” The only indication of his nervousness is in the way his heart pounds in his chest and the slight crack to his voice. He tries to convince himself that everything was going to be fine. Maybe if he apologized, this family would keep him and they could get over all of this.

“Come into the kitchen, please.”

Keith sets his backpack by his shoes, an extra precaution in case he had to leave in a rush. It had happened before — he’d learned to be safe rather than sorry. His wallet was in the front pocket, his cellphone in his hip pocket, the remainder of his lunch under his textbooks. Everything was going to be fine.

Mr. and Mrs. Griffin are both in the kitchen, but… no James. Keith chances a look up at the staircase, but the light to his foster brother’s room is off. When he looks back, he notices that Mrs. Griffin’s eyes are red rimmed and tired, and Mr. Griffin looks a little older than he usually did.

“Did you and James walk home together?” Mr. Griffin asks after a moment of slightly awkward silence.

The dark haired boy blinks, surprise blooming in his chest. It cancels out some of the resigned anxiety that had nestled itself between his ribs, but does nothing to quell the wariness. He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

Mrs. Griffin lets out a soft sob, her hand covering mouth and her shoulders hunching. Her husband rubs her back gently, folding her in his arms and against his frame. “Did you two leave at the same time?” He presses.

Unease creeps under Keith’s skin. “I… no, we didn’t. Is something wrong?”

“James didn’t come home,” Mr. Griffin says, his voice rough, looking out of the kitchen window. It was already dark out — Keith had really procrastinated. “We were hoping he was with you. He isn’t answering his phone.”

Keith pulls his own phone and looks down at it, but he didn’t have any messages or missed calls. He frowns. “No, we… he didn’t come home with me.”

His foster mom makes another wet noise and leaves the kitchen, probably fleeing to the bathroom or her room. The two men watch her go, the tallest defeated and the smallest wary. Mr. Griffin looks back down at Keith, passing a hand over his eyes and sighing. They make brief eye contact, and for once, Keith isn’t the one to break it.

“We ordered pizza for dinner. Will you answer the door for it?” At Keith’s affirmation, he pulls his wallet from his pocket and fishes through it for a couple bills. When he goes to give it to his foster son, Mr. Griffin pauses, taking in the bruising and swelling on Keith’s hand.

There’s a split second of panic when they make eye contact again, Keith’s stomach plunging to his feet. His heart starts up again, running overdrive. The school had called, hadn’t they? Where was the lecture, the ‘pack your bags and wait for the social worker’ speech?

But his foster dad only gives him the money, making sure to be careful. “There’s ice in the freezer,” he says, his voice gruff. “Don’t forget to tip the delivery person.” Without another word, he follows after his wife.

Keith stands in the kitchen, staring at the money in his bruised hand and listening as a door opens and closes upstairs, leaving him in silence.

He hadn’t been kicked out. He hadn’t been yelled at or reminded how much he’d fucked up in his life. They were trusting him to stick around with money for the delivery man. He looks up at the stairs, drawing in a breath that sticks in his throat. This… this was good.

While waiting for the pizza, Keith pulls out his phone and texts James. His foster parents had given him just about everyone in the family’s phone number, direct and extended.

_Me: where are you_

**8:27 pm**

Keith waits for the pizza guy. He pays, tips, and sets the pizza on the counter. He tells his foster parents that it’s here. He eats alone. He moves to the basement when nobody comes down to eat after a while.

_Me: okay look, im sorry. i didn’t steal your map thing but i shouldn’t have punched you. that was uncool. but can you please just come home? i will move out if thats what you want. just come home._

**10:41 pm**

He goes to bed that night with a stomach ache that isn’t quite from the pizza, refreshing his phone messages until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore and his battery is almost dead.

*

The next day he wakes up to no messages and police in the kitchen.

It takes him by complete surprise. He’s up at the crack of dawn, just like normal. He puts on his clothes, just like normal. He goes to the kitchen to grab food, which is something that’s new, but what’s also starting to become normal. It isn’t until he’s in the middle of pouring his cereal that he notices there are two policemen at the kitchen table, sitting with mugs of coffee and… staring at him.

Instantly Keith tenses, puffing up like a frightened cat. Hackles raised. Claws out. He’s ready to bolt like one, too, until someone sets a hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. He twists to look, surprised to see his foster dad looking at him with something that wasn’t apologetic pity, guilt, or outright disgust. Instead, he looked amused.

“Good morning.” He says, patting his shoulder. In a lower voice, he says, “We’re filing a missing persons report. James didn’t come home last night and none of his friends have seen him.”

Keith appreciates that this wasn’t for him, but he can’t help but notice the dark circles under Mr. Griffin’s eyes and the worry that shadows his eyes. He can only nod, glancing back down at his cereal.

“Did you see anything?” One of the police directs at him. He’s a huge, burly man, probably close to three times Keith’s size. One of his eyes is cloudy, a huge scar slashed through the bridge of his nose diagonally to his temple. Right through the eye. Keith shudders, looking elsewhere.

“See what?”

The officer growls impatiently. “I don’t have time for games, boy.”

“Sendak.” The other officer huffs. He had kinder face, hazel eyes gentle. Or, well, Keith thought they would be, if he weren’t glaring at his partner. He turns his gaze back to the boy. “My name is Thace, and this is Sendak. We’re just trying to find out where your brother is.”

“Foster brother.” Keith mumbles around a spoonful of his cereal. Mrs. Griffin looks especially pained, and guilt makes his stomach ache. He pushes his cereal away.

“Foster brother, right,” Officer Thace nods, not put off in the least. “Well, you be sure to tell us if you find anything.”

That seemed like the end of it, so Keith emptied his (full) bowl of cereal and went to get dressed. But as he passed the dining room table, the gnarled officer, Sendak, yanked him back by the forearm. Keith stumbled, finding himself face to face with a cruel face. It was even worse up close.

“Don’t go pickin’ fights again, y’hear? Looks suspicious.”

Keith swallows hard when the officer’s gaze drops to his bruised knuckles. After a beat of silence, Sendak gives him a little shove and a hearty chuckle. “Off to school, you ruffian.”

The tension in the room melts when his foster parents laugh along with him. Feeling quite violated, Keith does his best to flee downstairs without actually looking like he was running away. He could feel that horrible gaze on his back until he disappeared down the basement stairs.

*

Keith had forgotten just how small the town was until he went to school and got bombarded by a group of overeager freshmen he’d never met before, demanding to know what had happened to James and why the police were at his house.

“Er — what?” He manages to get out after a round of shrieked questions.

“Oh, Keith, _there_ you are.” An arm slings around his shoulders, drawing him away from the girls. Keith looks up to either smack someone or demand why they were touching him, only to see Lance. He gets a wink before he’s dragged away. “Sorry, ladies, he’s got places to be.”

“Thanks.” Keith says under his breath when they’re far enough away and sure that the girls aren’t following them.

Lance claps him on the back. “Hey, don’t mention it.”

He’s about to say something about owing him when Lance’s gaze turns sly and he leans in like they were sharing a secret. “So, rumor has it that the cops broke into your house looking for James’s body.”

Instantly disgust rips through his chest, souring his stomach even further as he rips himself from Lance’s reach. “Who the fuck told you _that_?”

The Cuban puts his hands up, eyes wide. “I dunno, I just heard it around, geez! No need to get so defensive, sheesh.” He pauses, then edges closer. “So… it’s true?” He asks in a low tone.

Keith turns around and walks away from him.

“Keith!” He squawks behind him, even as the dark haired boy weaves his way through the crowd of kids heading to their classes. “My guy! My dude! C’mon, I didn’t mean it!”

He’s ignored. Keith was in no mood to deal with any of this.

The school body seemed to sense this as the day dragged on, because people left him well alone after Lance tried bothering him again and he all but lunged over the table to snap his neck. A lot of the rumors were ridiculous, most suggesting Keith had killed James and hidden the body in the woods on the edge of the small town.

He didn’t have much of an appetite or voice that day. His throat was tight and his stomach sour. It got worse when Shiro came near him, looking at him with something warm that Keith decided to interpret as pity, because that was a hell of a lot easier to deal with than concern or compassion.

On the walk home that afternoon, he kept telling himself that it would get better. That tomorrow would be fine. That James had just run off in an attempt to make Keith leave and his parents pay attention to him.

But the police officers were over every morning. Sendak seemed to take up most of the room in the house with his suffocating presence. Thace was calmer, quieter, more friendly — but he was still a cop, and Keith had bad memories with cops.

That grotesque gaze was always on his back as Keith moved around in the morning. Police cars patrolled constantly by their house. Mr. Griffin seemed more tired. Mrs. Griffin cried frequently. They all seemed to think Keith didn’t notice notice, but he did.

He saw the way Mrs. Griffin hesitated after calling Keith for dinner, looking to the stairs and the empty room above. He saw the tightness of Mr. Griffin’s smile when he looked at Keith to talk about the game on the TV with him, only to realize that the boy next to him was not his real son.

Keith knew he was just taking up space now. He did his best to stay on top of his studies, keep to his room, clean when he was home alone, stay out of the house for a few hours after school doing whatever he could find so his foster parents could have some time to grieve.

On the twelfth morning, Keith woke up and resolved to fix the situation in any way he could.

It was a Saturday morning. Nobody was home; the Griffins had gone out of town to visit a few old friends and take the weekend for themselves. The house was quiet. Keith’s head was not.

He decided, on some whim, to start at the library. Libraries had always been a place of refuge for him. In every city and almost every school, there had been a library. He could go and find solace in the many books on the shelves, in the overstuffed chairs and the familiar must that came with books.

In every place, the librarian had always been very helpful. Giving him book recommendations, talking to him about stories they had once heard, gossiping about the locals. And, as Keith walked into the cozy little building, he realized this place would be no different.

The librarian was a frazzled-looking man, fussing with the binding of a book when Keith went up to the desk. He was mumbling frantically to himself about something or other. It sounded like something about math.

“Excuse me,” he stops in front of the desk, setting his hand down to get his attention.

The man looks up abruptly, his eyes wide, then blinks and shakes himself into composure. “Hello, young man. Do you know anything about aerodynamics?”

“Um.”

“No, no, of course you don’t. You should, though, a young man like you. Bright and intelligent, huh. Young men like you _should_ know some aerodynamics.”

Keith considers walking right back out. Maybe this librarian was clinically insane and that was why nobody seemed to be in this library.

“But you aren’t here for aerodynamics, are you?” The librarian muses, something in his tone easing out as he strokes his chin, studying Keith.

“I… no, sir, um.”

“Slav.” The librarian — Slav — corrects, setting his book aside and setting his hands on the information desk, scrutinizing the boy intensely. Keith fidgets uncomfortably.

“What are you here for, boy?” He asks bluntly, turning back to the torn cover of the book he’d been working on. “I’m very busy, very busy indeed. No time for idle chatter.”

“Yes, of course.” Keith says hastily “I, um. I’m looking for-” he stops himself. What was he looking for? He had absolutely no idea. Maybe a book on crime stats? A map of the surrounding area? A djinni? Who knew.

Slav stares at him for another minute, then _hmph_ s. “You’re the Griffin’s new boy.” It isn’t a question.

Taken aback, Keith nods. How on Earth…?

“I’ve heard the police talk about you. Wild hair, attitude, shifty looking creature.”

Keith blanches, looking down at himself. Okay, the wild hair and attitude, yes. But shifty? That was definitely a new one.

“Clearly,” Slav drawls. “They only knew two thirds of what they were talking about. Shifty, my ass. Those men could use a good lesson in aerodynamics, if you ask me.”

Keith knew he was staring, and some part of his brain was reminding him it was rude, but he was _so bewildered_ that he couldn’t seem to do anything else. He always knew that librarians were a different species, but Slav seemed to be in his own entire _subcategory_.

“Shifty,” he was still muttering. “I’ll tell you who’s shifty, that Sendak character is shifty. No, you aren’t shifty. _Brooding_ , yes. Very brooding. You have a dark past, don’t you, boy? What did you say your name was?”

“Keith,” he finds himself saying, his voice faint.

“Keith. Very well, Keith, I will help you.”

“You- what?” he squawks, watching as the skinny man bustles his way from behind the library desk and to the stacks. He has little else to do than run after him when Slav doesn’t stop, clearly determined.

“You’re looking for the whereabouts of your foster brother, are you not?” Slav says over his shoulder, leading him deeper into the wide maze of bookshelves.

“How did you know that?” Keith asks, no longer quite put off. He was amazed, more than anything. After all, librarians were magicians in their own way. This one just seemed more… eccentric than any others Keith had met.

Slav scoffs. “Oh, it’s quite easy to tell. You’re a man on a mission — and in this town, there is only one mission to be had as of late. You’re going to need a map, hm… yes, and I’ll add some aerodynamics, just to be safe. No harm in a sharp boy becoming sharper.”

They reach a large oak door in the very back of the library. Slav stops, pulling out a large set of keys and examining them until he finds the one he wants. “Come along, boy.”

“Keith,” the boy corrects as the eccentric librarian pushes the door open and beckons for him to follow.

Inside is what looks to be an old storage room, but instead of odds and ends, there are books. Many look to be hundreds of years old, tucked neatly away, out of sight from the world beyond. It humbles him to even be in here, in the presence of such wisdom and memory.

Slav shuffles around, picking his way through old stacks and muttering to himself. Keith steps further inside, looking around and brushing his fingers over the old spines of books that had decades on him.

“Be careful with those,” Slav grunts from across the room, pulling out an atlas and blowing the dust from it. It sends him into a hacking fit, but he shelves the book and goes picking through the shelves again.

Keith watches him, then turns back to the shelves, curious. One book in particular catches his attention. It was smaller than the rest, no bigger than his two cupped palms, and bound with a cover the color or dried blood. He pulls it out, inspecting the strange language on the front.

Something about this book made him feel uneasy, the hair along the back of his neck prickling and his fingers tingling where they touched the cover. There was something ancient and dark attached to this book, and something about it seemed to call to Keith.

“Best not to get tangled up in that.”

Keith jumps a few inches in the air, whirling around with wide eyes and a protest on his lips, only to come face to face with Slav. He was frowning, his expression grave as it flicks down to the book.

“There are things, my boy,” he extracts the book from Keith’s hands, setting it aside. “That bright young men like you would do best to stay away from.”

He replaces the crimson book with a thicker volume, one with worn pages and old writing. “This is a volume of all the places in town. It’s dated, but highly accurate. You will find nothing better.”

Keith nods, brushing it off and looking back up at Slav. “Thanks, uh…” He pauses, his gaze falling back on the crimson book. Something in him would not let him leave until he had it. He needed it. “You said something about aerodynamics…?”

The librarian brightens, brushing his hands off and walking away. “It’s over here. Come along, come along.”

Keith waits until he passes before reaching over and grabbing the book, tucking the book into his jacket and hurrying after him. He felt a little dirty, but… the proximity of the book seemed to calm him in some strange way.

Once Slav was satisfied with his book selection and Keith was loaded down with many books that he was sure he would never read, he was shooed out of the library.

“Wait, but — don’t I need a checkout slip?” He yelps as Slav all but pushes him out the door.

“No!’ He says with a gleeful little chuckle. “You’ll be back. Go, Keith, go read about aerodynamics!”

And with that, he was pushed out the door and back into the town.

*

That night after dinner, Keith sat downstairs with the book in his lap. He doesn’t open it, not yet. Instead he takes his time running his fingers over the old cover, his eyes tracing over the words. He couldn’t read it, but he had a feeling he would be able to when he opened to book and found what he wanted.

Somehow, the answer lay in these pages. Somehow, it lay in the grave expression of that librarian and the delicacy of his fingers as he’d taken it away from Keith. And still Keith had taken it, still he felt attached to it.

He justified this as he went to bed, counting all the reasons why he shouldn’t be guilty. At the end of the night, he chalked it up to finally amounting to something. With this book, he could prove to his foster parents, to the town, to _himself_ that he was worth more than a trash bag full of his belongings.

Keith fell asleep that night, determined and excited to do something about all this mess.

He was asleep when a shadowy figure materialized in front of the book, hovering over Keith and watching with slitted red eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so absent! I meant to update sooner, but I had to scrap most of my original ideas because I... hated them. Very much. Also I came out to my parents and _that_ has been an absolute shit-show. My updates will probably continue to be sporadic because of it, but I'll do my best to update!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and thank you for hanging out and reading my stuff <3


End file.
